


What became of the dreams we had

by aryastark_valarmorghulis



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Boats and Ships, Book 4: Harry Potter and the Goblet of Fire, Canon Compliant, Christmas, Getting Back Together, M/M, POV Remus Lupin, Post-Harry Potter and the Prisoner of Azkaban, Sailing, Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-26
Updated: 2019-11-26
Packaged: 2020-10-20 14:14:37
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,005
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20676731
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aryastark_valarmorghulis/pseuds/aryastark_valarmorghulis
Summary: Christmas, 1994: two young old men, a cottage, a boat and a love story.(Set during Goblet of Fire: Sirius is hiding in Hogsmeade but he visits Remus for Christmas)"He banishes from his mind the fleeting sense that his rib cage is unclenching for the first time in fourteen years, now that Sirius is eating at the tiny table of his grandmother’s old beach cottage, a clipping cut out of the past and abruptly glued to the present."





	What became of the dreams we had

**Author's Note:**

> Huge thanks to my beta [TheHufflebean](https://archiveofourown.org/users/SevralShips/pseuds/TheHufflebean) for the tremendous help, to [shessocold](https://archiveofourown.org/users/shessocold/pseuds/shessocold) for the unwavering support and to the [Wolfstar Games](https://wolfstargames.dreamwidth.org/) mods for bringing back this wonderful fest.  
**Theme**: Journey  
**Team**: Embarkment  
**Prompt**:  


_I. Christmas Eve _

The afternoon has reached its ripeness, a feeble greyish light spilling from the window above the sink where Remus stands, witnessing the eternal monotonous rhythm of the waves crashing into the rocky shore, foam splashes soaring and falling again and again and again. 

A handful of steps away from the cottage, his dad’s old boat lies upturned on the narrow strip of pebble beach, its chipped and faded brown paint a dull brushstroke of colour between the cloudy sky and the bleached sea, an old relic from the past left outside to rot under a blanket of seaweeds and gulls’ droppings.

Another shipwreck of the past is sat at the rickety table, sipping his cuppa and stuffing himself with gingerbread. The old wicker chair in which he sits squeaks with every movement.

Remus blows on his mug, standing there like a sentinel despite the dull twinge piercing his left knee. He stuffs his ears full with the comforting company sounds of crunch and creak, and drinks in the sight of Sirius, who every second or so reaches with his fingertips to touch his new wand, as if to make sure he’s still got one, that he’s still a wizard. The pockmarked table is cluttered with stacks of yellowed parchment, curled and stained with ink, and old volumes left open between inkwells and quills. That morning Sirius had eaten lunch in bed, tired from the journey from Hogsmeade, and Remus hadn’t cleared it yet. All in all, it is a lovely, albeit unforeseen Christmas Eve picture. 

After Sirius had shrugged off the dog that morning, Remus had been so tight with nerves that he had almost craved a cigarette for the first time in a few years. The sorry sight of him standing disoriented and still in the corridor, more lost and shrunken than Remus had ever seen him, shook the walls of his lonely cottage like an earthquake. 

But now, after a few hours spent together, Remus is starting to exhale the breath he’s been holding back for six months, since that night at the Shack, or perhaps for a year and a half, since the news of Sirius’ jailbreak. He banishes from his mind the fleeting sense that his rib cage is unclenching for the first time in fourteen years, now that Sirius is eating at the tiny table of his grandmother’s old beach cottage, a clipping cut out of the past and abruptly glued to the present.

Remus remains quiet for a few minutes, hoping for a spell that could freeze the perpetual cogs of time so that they can stay here. He doesn’t ask for much – he never had – only for this Christmas to never end, for Sirius to be safe, hidden here from the Ministry, the Dementors, from the world’s black whispers slowly lifting until they are a white noise always buzzing in the background.

Sirius is turned towards the big window at his left, the afternoon light outlining his pale neck, gaze as grey as the overcast sky lost outside. There’s nothing to watch except for a narrow strand of pebbly beach, the boat (which on the outside appears to be nothing but a tiny scrap, but which Remus knows is in fact sturdy enough to plunge through the Channel and reach out up to the Normandy shores, thanks to a cleverly modified Extending Charm). Sirius knows, too, of course – or at least he did, but he must be immersed in other thoughts, Harry maybe, or menial details like dinner or trying the new wand. He can’t possibly be reminiscing about their missed chance of running away fifteen years ago – this particular regret must be Remus’ only to bear.

“Sirius?” His quiet murmur seems to break whatever thread of thoughts Sirius has been following. He turns to him, fingers absently tracing the carved runes of his wand, one haunted pair of eyes meeting another. But then Sirius smiles a little and Remus pretends his guts aren’t wringing him out like an old rag.

Sirius fixed his teeth this morning when he was in the bathroom to shower, shortly after he had arrived and Remus had given him the new wand, so now they’re as white and perfect as they were years ago, instead of rotting and yellowed. Sirius himself – hair washed and pulled behind his ears, long beard trimmed, clad in a frayed jumper and a pair of Remus’ old jeans that expose his socked ankles – looks like the past stumblingly tripped into the present. But it’s as if too many frames are missing for Remus to reconcile the boy he knew then with the man who barged into his cottage in the early morning hours, drenched in seawater and mud.

“Hmm?”

Remus notices the plate of gingerbread has been polished off and the tea mug is empty.

“Would you like an early dinner?”

“Well, how could I say no to food.”

Behind the faint smile, Remus can glimpse some sort of weariness, a strain to seem relaxed and polite. He attempts to look into him – it used to be that easy – to find in the curl of his still lovely mouth and in the fine web of lines at the corners of his eyes a hint to unlock him, to bridge the ocean of years and distance that keeps them apart. Sirius is so close, within arm’s reach, and yet may as well be a galaxy away for how the space between them aches with all the things that got wasted in between.

Remus waves his wand to spell open the moth-eaten pantry and the little fridge and aims for a bit of levity, “Steak with boiled potatoes and cabbage? I know it’s not very Christmas-y, but my cooking abilities are still limited and I thought you could use a hearty meal–”

“I’ve been living off rats for months, so I’m pretty sure I couldn’t care less about your cooking,” Sirius interrupts him, a barely discernible trickle of sarcasm affecting his otherwise friendly tone. That’s a conversation ender. Remus nods, the hot twinge of shame burning in his belly, tears his eyes away from Sirius and busies himself with the mundane task of cooking.

In the past years, he had learned to survive with one meal per day and to buy sensibly – he knows which supermarkets discounted food near expiry so he could cast Conservation Spells on it, he knows which Muggle brands were cheaper – and a few embarrassing times he even went out at night to rummage through the trash bins nearby restaurants and cafes. He had never bought such an enormous quantity of food as he had after reading Sirius’ latest letter, consisting of a very unsubtle inquiry about where and with whom Remus was spending Christmas. He’d bought bread, tins of tuna fish, canned peas and beans, cabbage, potatoes, sprouts, a couple of beefsteaks, and even an overpriced cake he ordered at Sugarplum’s. A severe blow for his meagre savings, but Sirius probably hadn’t had a good meal in more than a decade, and Remus only knows how to atone with concrete gestures: the food, the shelter, the new wand he bought at the market in Knockturn Alley.

With a Levitating Charm, he sends the potatoes floating over a bowl to peel themselves and the meat flying on the pan, the burner lighting up as soon as Remus aims his wand at the stove.

“Are you even happy I came here?”

Remus blinks and his heart is being peeled just like the potato skins that crumple, one by one, onto the kitchen counter. He doesn’t know if _happy _is the right word for being with Sirius again, not when the narrow space between them is tarnished with all their past mistakes. What even is happiness, at this late hour?

“Yes, of course, I–” Remus stammers, but Sirius quickly exploits his hesitation – he’s always been so good at worming his way in Remus’ faltering moments.

“Because Merlin knows you’re looking miserable,” he decrees, voice rough and low.

Remus stares at the sea beyond the dirty window-glass, the orange specks of dwindling daylight glittering like gold coins, and holds underwater all the words he longs to say to Sirius, hoping the gulf of silence stretching out between them can dampen Sirius’ bitterness.

“I’m sorry,” he offers after a while, turning the meat with a tap of his wand.

“For?” Of course Sirius doesn’t let it go, as always, relentless like a dog with a bone – literally. When things started to darken, he used to poke and prod and drill Remus with thorny questions, _ what kind of mission is it, where were you last night, how long will you stay away, do you trust me, do you love me, _ again and again, until Remus felt skinned alive and when he searched inside he found himself empty of answers.

Now, he wants to fool himself – or both of them – into believing he has learned from his mistakes.

“For – for everything, for forgetting to drink the Wolfsbane that night–” he starts. He had already offered this useless apology in a vaguely encrypted letter, and Sirius never acknowledged it in his replies. 

“For Merlin’s sake,” Remus only hears Sirius’ scoff, but he can easily picture his disdainful expression, all narrowed eyes and tense jaw and mocking lips, “You had barely a moment to understand that I switched with _ Peter _ ” – he spits the name with such violent bitterness that the acid taste of it reverberates inside Remus’ mouth, his guts churning with hot-blind rage – “and he was still alive, how the fuck could I blame you for _ that _ ? And it’s not like I reacted so much better after _ I _found out. Can you look at me while I’m talking to you?”

Remus turns immediately, like a puppet whose string has been just pulled – Sirius still has that irresistible Summoning Charm effect on him.

“I knew you’d been beating yourself up about this. You sorry sod,” Sirius says, voice still raspy but much, much more gentle, the reddish light of sundown painting pink stripes on his gaunt face.

“Yes, well, you know me, that’s what I do. Dinner’s almost ready, can you please clear the table?” Remus says, to lighten the mood. He had tried to banish any hopes for this Christmas together, to settle for a shadow of their ancient friendship, but of course, Sirius would want to disembowel his mind, layer by layer.

Dinner is a quiet affair until of course Sirius charges in again with embarrassing questions: “Saw your dad’s old boat outside,” he mumbles around a mouthful of boiled potatoes, “Are all the Charms still up?”

Remus swallows a bite of meat and washes it down with a sip of water. “I guess? I don’t know, I haven’t used it...” he chews on a bite of bread and chooses the next words carefully but speaks as casually as he can manage, “in a long time. The Extendable Charm is permanent, though.”

“Hmm. Do you remember the last time we used it?”

_ Merlin’s beard, _ Sirius had never learned how to take a hint, but looking at his hard, almost gleefully focused eyes, Remus reckons he’s pushing him on purpose, and his fists on the table grasp only air. What does Sirius even _want _other than taunting him with the reminders of a past that never really went away?

“Sadly, Sirius, I never forget a thing.” It comes out more nostalgic than bitter, and Remus pretends not to notice the small, sweet smile softening Sirius’ hard-edged face.

“Why don’t we take her out for a ride tomorrow? We’d be hidden with the Disillusionment Spells and the Muggle Repellent Charms, and since you _ never forget a thing_, you should remember how to sail it.”

Remus just blinks, hesitation swirling in his veins – Sirius is a wanted man, and a healthy dose of caution is all but mandatory after the Quidditch World Cup events and Harry’s forced involvement in the Triwizard Tournament – but if they are careful in casting all the protective Charms, they would be effectively invisible to Muggles, and almost untraceable for wizards, too. The boat was also outfitted with a permanent Anti-Apparition ward, so in theory, they would be almost safer on board than inside the cottage. 

However, Remus doubts Sirius’ concern for safety is the reason behind his suggestion of a boat ride – he probably saw the boat and reckoned it could be a small moment of fun _and _a way to slap into Remus’ face the past they lost at his fault, and so couldn’t resist the opportunity.

“Just to do something nice,” Sirius shrugs, and of course Remus caves immediately. Not only Sirius can still play him like a maestro, but Remus wants – had always wanted – to give him all the nice things in the world. That’s why he spent almost a month finding a Reed wand with a Welsh Green’s heartstring core in the more or less legal market held every Friday in Knockturn Alley. It cost him almost nine Galleons – a heavy blow for his thinning savings, mostly consisting of his Hogwarts salary – but he doesn’t regret it. It’s well-spent money, for Sirius.

“Maybe tomorrow after breakfast, if the weather allows it,” he replies, as vague as he can manage, and the radiant kid Sirius was seems to seep through the heartfelt smile and lighten up his haunted face.

They clear the table with the wireless diffusing the soft notes of Celestina Warbeck singing Christmas carols, in a silence that Remus can’t seem to identify as awkward or companionable. He makes another pot of tea and pours two half glasses of Firewhisky, stealing glances at Sirius, filling up the small room even without talking. He has his long legs stretched out on the sofa, a red lumpy thing that smells of spilt coffee, twirling his wand to Summon old books and crumpled periodicals from the shelves, pale skin warmed by Hope’s old yellow lampshade.

For a second an onrush of tenderness weakens Remus’ already weak knees, and he can see himself through a dark glass, reaching out to brush Sirius’ elbow and nuzzling his cheek on that warm spot between neck and shoulder where he _ knows _ he fits, and saying softly _ You look tired, Pads, shall we go to bed? _In another life, perhaps.

In this one they go to bed early, a meagre Christmas Eve for two young, ancient men. Both Remus’ offer to sleep on the armchair and Sirius’ suggestion to sleep on the threadbare carpet are met with an exasperated glare. Lights put out with a wave of Sirius’ wand, they lie on the lumpy bed like opposite parentheses, unsaid words and apologies enclosed between them, wrapped tightly in the black quiet of night-time. Remus realizes they never touched during the day except for the obligatory friendly hug as soon as Sirius transformed back, and the hypnotic lullaby of the sea is far too soothing background music for Remus’ troubled heart. He tosses and turns, the covers too heavy, the sheets to itchy, the bed too narrow.

Sirius’ deep, steady breathing is an almost erotic hum, his warmth so close, an ancient siren song whispering sweet lyrics over Remus’ tired bones, stirring the hidden desire he stitched underneath the deepest recesses of his marrow, never fully torn apart. It might be nostalgia, it might be loneliness, it might be that Sirius is the only one left who remembers a past where once he was happy, smiling, in love. Remus is the only one left who remembers Sirius as well, and he clutches the ghosts of those boys close to his heart. 

Memory is everything when one has so little left. And maybe it’s not healthy to want Sirius again, not when they’re still wavering between the lovers they've been and the friendship they should resume now but, unseen, he still tries to commit to memory the shape of Sirius’ body under the covers. In the chiaroscuro darkness, fourteen years ago is only yesterday, but he doesn’t dare to reach out, not even to feign an accidental touch, dreading to shatter the fragile illusion.

“If you want to shag just bloody ask.” Sirius’ crude words break the silence to hit Remus like a Full Body-Bind hex, heart beating madly in his throat and limbs frozen in stupor. “Otherwise, for Merlin’s sake, just sleep, Remus, or let’s have a lively conversation about the last thirteen years, or talk about the weather or whatever, I can hear you overthinking about who the fuck knows what and it’s giving _ me _ a headache.”

Remus swallows and breathes and tries not to blame Sirius for never learning when to shut the hell up – _ he’s never had a chance to mature, _ he reminds himself, _ how could he outgrow the habit of spitting every foul thing that comes into his mind. _ And then, _ I must be patient, I don’t want to spend our time fighting. _

“I’m sorry...” he starts, but he hears and feels Sirius scoffing, shuffling next to him, the mattress springs popping loudly, a cold foot poking his bare ankle, “I haven’t slept next to someone in a long time,” he adds, aiming for honesty with the faint hope Sirius finally understands the hint and stops saying mortifying things.

“Please, tell me at least you got a few good fucks in all those years?” Of course, _ of course_, Sirius only rams further, finally succeeding with the arduous task of annoying Remus, “It’s not like _ you _ were the one in prison–”

“If you really want to know, yes, I did have a few good fucks,” Remus huffs, turning away, frustrated and discomfited to no end by the last conversation he’d want to have with Sirius. “Happy now?”

“Overjoyed,” Sirius deadpans. 

Remus is about to retort something as ugly as _then why did you fucking ask_, when sheets rustle, and bony knees press against the back of his legs, clumsy fingers rubs his elbows and warmth seeps through the threadbare cotton of his pyjamas. Sirius' mouth is somewhere between his ruffled hair and heated neck. Remus shuts his eyes to block out the darkness, and his mind spins maelstrom-like, Sirius at the vortex centre.

The slot of their bodies is complicated and only after some more hips wiggling and elbows bumping they settle into a passably comfortable embrace – their bodies have changed, their familiarity lost in the unforgiving spiral of time. It would take patience and time to rediscover Sirius, to recognise each other as old friends, and maybe, after, to attempt new, wiser, embraces.

But patience was never among Sirius’ virtues, and time is a luxury they never had, least of all now that Sirius is on the run, so Remus takes this instead, Sirius’ blunt questions and his outbursts of tenderness sudden like jagged lightning tearing open the night sky, the awkward tangle of their legs into the sheets, the heavy arm thrown over his chest.

“Hey, I, I didn’t want to be an arse... you’re not pissed off with me, are you?” Sirius whispers.

Can’t Sirius just be quiet, for once? Remus pats the back of Sirius’ hand with his fingers, fully aware he’s fumbling way more than is age-appropriate. “No, no... try to sleep, Sirius.”

A sigh caresses the nape of Remus’ neck, the barest brush of lips rippling through the blood in his veins like magic. “Night, Moony. It’s nice to sleep on a proper bed, with you. Happy Christmas.”

Sirius should _really _shut up.

“Goodnight,” Remus replies, forcing his tight throat to work. 

_II. Christmas Day_

An air of glass seeps through the closed shutters as Remus slips out of bed, slow and careful when he folds back the sheets and blankets up around Sirius’ curved shoulders. He lets his fingers stray for a moment near the pillow, close to the dark spill of Sirius’ long hair and the elegant slope of his nose, allowing himself to admire his sleeping shape, curled on one side, the crinkles at the corner of his eyes softened by sleep.

Gently, Remus clicks the bedroom door shut and sets to work methodically in the kitchen; he Summons bacon and sausages to fry in a skillet, cracks the eggs and taps gently the old toaster that complies only a couple of times a week but this morning browns the bread perfectly, as if it chooses to behave for a guest. Merlin knows Remus hasn’t had a guest in – well, he doesn’t even remember.

The kettle whistle lures Sirius into the kitchen, bleary-eyed, stretching his still sleep-slow arms above his head.

“’Morning, Moony,” he yawns, “Merry Christmas.” He’s still wearing the clothes he slept in, an old jumper of Remus’ too stretchy in the shoulders and too short at the wrists, a pair of striped pyjama pants baring a few good inches of skinny ankles, and fuzzy socks with a couple of holes.

He joins him at the stove while Remus fills two plates with crispy bacon and sausages – one fuller than the other – and they don’t touch when Sirius opens the cupboard to retrieve two cups, nor when Remus dumps the eggs on two plates, and not even when they almost collide to grab the sugar jar from the shelf, both politely withdrawing their hands with a half-smile.

Remus wonders if, after last night’s cuddling – no other word for it – this deliberate distance is only an old-men version of their constant dance from their teenage years of collar smoothing, brushing imaginary dust from each other’s hair, ear whispers more like ear kisses, and lingering shoulder squeezes. The very rituals that led them, on an autumn evening just like any other behind the Greenhouses to share a fag – Remus picked up smoking only to steal a few moments alone with Sirius – their faces so close Remus could count Sirius’ thick eyelashes. Their first kiss long overdue and yet faltering, hands clumsy under each other’s robes, both yearning with shy desire.

But that is the past. Remus can’t hope to find the innocent taste of their first kisses in Sirius’ hardened features. During that night at the Shack, for a second he entertained the illusion of getting back all he had lost, but it only lasted for the ephemeral, fleeting moment of an embrace, a gasping apology before moving on to more pressing matters. Six months of stilted, encoded correspondence and Sirius refusing to drop by until drawn by the promise of a new wand had thoroughly stripped Remus of his self-deceptions. They aren’t naive kids drunk on hubris and bold hope anymore, blindly believing their love would have endured any ugly thing the world threw at them, who clutched at each other hard enough to bruise skin with promises they couldn’t keep. They are only young old men, feigning a familiarity that has been severed so many years ago, and yet, Remus clings to these precious shards of intimacy, of _them_.

So when Sirius, plate already clean, demands they take out the boat with a clear glint of anticipation in his eyes, Remus can’t help but indulge him, even if it’s silly, even if the sky bears the white opaqueness that usually anticipates rain.

As soon as they’re outside the door Padfoot runs ahead, almost jumping on the rocky path leading to a narrow beach, nothing more than a pebbly strip flanked on both sides by high limestone cliffs.

Salty air whipping his cold cheeks, Remus trudges along the slimy, uneven steps. He clutches a paper bag stuffed full with their lunch food, feeling the icy wind slithering under his old shearling coat, feeling the distinct shape of every rock distinct through the worn-out soles of his boots.

As he approaches the boat, wheeling seagulls cry overhead, an odd counterpoint to Padfoot’s loud barks. Remus waves his wand to Levitate the old boat in the air and onto the shore – even if the cottage is in a pretty remote cove, the previous morning, just after Sirius’ arrival, he covered the whole perimeter with Muggle Repelling Charms and Protective Spells, the whole old wartime ritual, really, so he doesn’t have to worry about prying eyes.

A waterfall of dust and gravel tumbles onto the beach, along with brown heaps of seaweed, as the boat turns around mid-air, but it floats gracefully, the brown planks dulled and weathered under the sun and the years of disuse, the name _ Hope _written in white block letters still discernible on the starboard. As soon as Remus settles it slowly on the seashore, Padfoot, as impatient as ever, hops aboard, tail wagging and pink tongue out, running circles in what, on the outside, seems only a simple, tiny fisherman’s boat.

Remus’ boots skid a bit on the wet pebbles lining the beach, gleaming even in the opaque absence of sunlight, and he grabs the splintery wood of the boat’s stern to lift himself up, knee joints loudly cracking. He blinks and smiles, eyes getting accustomed again to the Extension Charm – and steps through the whole length of the boat – from the well-deck to the pointed bow, wood creaking under his tread. Remus sets down the bags of food on the steps leading below deck and clears his mind to focus on the charm, taps his wand on the warped boards. Slowly, gradually, a shimmery white wave spreads through all the wooden surfaces, proof that the Disillusionment Charm is working and the boat is fading and blending in with the surroundings, like a chameleon.

Remus pauses at the second out of four steps to climb down below deck, the dust heavy like a layer of snow spread over the narrow galley, thick cobwebs hanging from the rafters above.

“There.” In a blink, the blunt power of a Scouring Charm vanishes any dirt, the kitchenette, the pull-out table and the walls reacquiring their opaque dark color, the wood discoloured and stained but clean. Sirius twirls his wand between his fingers, smiling. “I’ve already cleaned the cockpit, the toilet, and the bed cupboard, it’s not perfect but at least the dust is gone – we should cast all the Protective Spells and then we’re all set.” Sirius’ smile gets wider, his enthusiasm clear, and infectious, too.

Remus finds himself grinning back and it dawns on him that he _wants _to go, not just for Sirius but for himself, too, to restore this old relic with magic and sail as they did back then. He realises he hasn’t done such a careless thing in ages, and the idea excites and unsettles him at the same time. How long has it been, since he did something without a pragmatic reason, just for fun, just because it made him happy? Years. Decades, probably.

Spidery blue lights spark from his wand as he casts the usual Muggle Repelling Charms and he hears Sirius mumbling under his breath a familiar litany: _ Salvio hexia, Protego totalum, Cave Inimicum, Muffliato. _ They share a glance, after, the tingly aftertaste of magic still lingering between them like an invisible, buzzing thread. How many times did they cast those very spells together, he asks himself. Countless, like the stars in the sky.

Remus goes straight to the cockpit to avoid staring too much at Sirius looking at him. It is a tiny cubicle with a huge wooden helm, the eight spokes carved with runes, just as the barrel. Even if he hasn’t cast it for years, he performs the Direction Charm without hesitation. He remembers standing there as a kid, chubby hands still unscarred barely reaching the handles, so that Lyall used to hoist him up on his shoulders and he would get to watch from above the runes glowing yellow-gold as his father tapped his wand on the spindle.

Just as it happened before, fine lines of gold flow from the centre of the wheel, slowly bending and undulating and crossing until they draw in the air a nautical chart of cliffs, islets, beaches, inlets, and rocks between fifteen nautical miles from Lannacombe. Remus senses more than hears Sirius hovering behind him as he draws with his wand a simple line that leads from the cottage to Prawle Point, and then back up again – a well-known route, only two-hours ride.

“The usual tour?” Sirius asks, rhetorically. His voice is low and almost fond – maybe he’s remembering they were still together, if not happy, the last time they stepped foot on this boat.

Remus nods and then flicks his wand, setting the speed at seven knots. For a second, the boat pitches and rolls like an angry Kelpie is hitting the keel, and Remus holds on to the helm with both hands, his back bumping into Sirius’ chest, but after a moment, the boat settles into a gentle back and forth swaying.

Strong arms squeeze around Remus’ waist, bony fingers nestling in the pilling wool of his jumper, and in a dizzy spell of vertigo, Remus can _ touch _ the future that never happened, the one they might have had if they had run away to France, on this boat, fourteen years ago, as Sirius – in jest, or maybe by chance, or who knows anymore – suggested.

“Hey,” Sirius rasps, and his voice brings Remus back to the present – it’s different, hoarser, lower, harsher somehow. “I’ve put a Warming Charm on the deck if you want to go sit there?”

Remus swallows as Sirius’ fingertips press on his hips a little like he wants to steer them both.

“Sure,” he strokes the back of Sirius’ hands, the skin chapped, lost in the soothing domesticity of their gestures. They haven’t touched at all today, and yet Sirius holds Remus close like he knows intimately all the hard bumps of his bones, the hunch at the top of his spine, the old fracture in the left shoulder that pains him when the weather is cold.

But Sirius doesn’t know all the lives his weary body lived in the last thirteen years, and when they untwine their hands to go back up on deck, guilt stings the back of Remus’ throat. For a second, he can’t stifle the ugly hope that Sirius will lift the Charm and reveal a young, unlined face, all haughty eyes, shaved and smiling, hair straight and lustrous. Having Sirius again is still so new sometimes he can’t reconcile the man walking in front of him with the young boy he loved.

Outside, it’s not nearly as cold and windy as it should be – Sirius must have cast a very powerful Warming Charm on the whole deck, so they’re inside a protected bubble where only a light breeze blows, softly tussling their hair. They both sit on the bow, knees almost touching but not quite, and remain silent for a while. Remus can feel his chest expand with the bracing sea air and with a sudden, unexpected blaze of giddiness, sat there without a reason other than the pleasure of enjoying the vastness of the calm sea stretching out in front of them, squeezed onto a few scraps of splintered, old wood. 

He remembers that time they shagged on these same very creaky, damp wooden boards, boat bobbing on the waves, rocking as they rocked in their frantic dance. He’s come to a point where memories like this one don’t only bring back pain and shame, but he can smile at them, a reminder that he was young once, that two happy boys existed, and they were as real as the men they are now. Maybe even more real, maybe now they’ve turned into mere shadows of their true selves, irredeemably broken. One must have been young, to have had his heart burst out of the rib cage at the simple joy of feeling warm skin under inexperienced palms, to have shivered for a brush of elbows, to have gone astray in sweaty embraces of eager arms and legs, to yearn for simply humping each other over their robes, to have lived for the days Sirius that smiled at him, and to have died a little inside when he didn’t anymore.

Remus gazes at Sirius staring vacantly at the blurred line where the grey sky ends and the seas begin, white foam frothing at the tip of every wave, the few spare sun rays seeping through the clouds scattering jewels across its surface.

Sirius is still handsome, of course, but his charm has a more rugged, understated contour, the long thick beard sprinkled with grey, the unkempt hair even longer, the violet shadows under his eyes, the faint lines time and imprisonment etched on his face. One has to really study him, like a painter with his muse, to appreciate the classical symmetry of his angular jaw, the regular slope of the nose, the thick black lashes, the tempting bow of his mouth, the thundercloud eyes.

It doesn’t make it any easier to look at him and not think how it would be to kiss him again, to hold him as if a splinter of love survived all those years and they have to cherish it like a war trophy, an heirloom of past bliss.

Sirius wouldn’t push him away, Remus is sure of it in a way he never was _before_, not when he held him so tenderly in his arms earlier and yesterday night, but it’s quite the egotistical craving. It isn’t fair to let Sirius believe he still loves him like time didn’t pass at all, like nothing changed, like they’re still the same people. Theirs is a relationship that would need time to mend properly, to darn all the frayed edges so their aged bodies can fit together again, gentle and grateful for a second chance, but time is something they can’t afford – Sirius promptly said he was only staying to retrieve the wand and for Christmas Day so that he could go back north to remain as close as he could to Harry.

“Sickle for your thoughts?” Remus asks, anticipating with half-dread and half-hope Sirius’ answers. But of course, Sirius ambushes him with a painful non-sequitur.

“Maybe we should have gone to France,” he says it with a wistful lilt in his low voice, and the heavy tug of regret bites Remus straight to the heart. “That time.”

A lonely seagull cries over their head and Remus tastes salt over his cracked lips before answering, as honestly as he can. “Yes, well, we should have done a lot of things,” he cringes at the involuntary sternness of his voice.

“Don’t _you _know it,” bites back Sirius, voice suddenly turned colder, distant.

There it was, the inevitable moment where Sirius would spout everything to unload it on him. Remus has braced himself for it since that night at the Shrieking Shack, under no delusion that they’d be able to avoid that confrontation forever, and yet he is ill-prepared for it, no longer accustomed to Sirius’ unpredictable moods, almost helpless to fire back – even if he has plenty to recriminate as well. 

He watches the muzzy dark shapes of Grindylows fluctuating underwater, hoping the salty air filling his lungs might be a soothing balm. Truth is, this brittle Sirius, who slices him when he speaks without sparing a glance, who casts bitter words like punishing hexes through gritted teeth and laces them with sudden bursts of tenderness is more familiar than ever. Sirius has always been like this, concealing within himself the cruelty of poison and the antidote as well, all the sweetness underneath softening the intensity of his rage.

“Make sure you never say a fucking word, Remus, Merlin knows how good you still are at it. Bet you even have the guts to call it _thinking_,” Sirius presses him, a derisive, acid edge in his tone. He wants to rile Remus up and Merlin be damned if he hasn’t mastered that fine art at the tender age of eleven.

Remus swallows, so many words stuck in his throat while he remains stubbornly silent, like salty seawater has been poured in his throat and he’s just testing how to breathe again, fidgeting on the too-narrow seat, shivering when an icy gust of wind slashes across his face – the Warming Charm must be starting to fade a bit. 

“I think I’m going to make some tea and eat that cake,” are the next words that come out of Sirius’ mouth, and then he disappears below deck, leaving Remus stunned by that odd, abrupt end to the argument, left on his own to think - just like Sirius mockingly remarked. 

A lonely ray of sun peeks through the overcast sky again, glimmering west for a second and then hiding again, a warning that the afternoon is slowly waning. Soon a sheer waxing moon will peer out of the clouds and bring with it the end of Sirius’ brief visit, inevitable like a clock chiming midnight, announcing the end of another Christmas. 

A waterfall of anxiety crashes through his chest, the same undercurrent of jittery fear he has learned to live with for the last six months, the worry for Sirius on his own as a wanted fugitive, Harry and the second Task, his inability to help them both, his less than minimum wage job as a proofreader for Whizz Hard Books, the Death Eaters simmering like a fire that’s never really been extinguished.

Now, in addition to all that, the prospect of going back to his lonely cottage alone, Sirius up north and far away again, seems the umpteenth weight his worn-out shoulders must bear. The real reason he never sailed the boat in all those years, it occurs to him without real surprise, is that it would have pained him too much. Without his parents and without Sirius, this boat is nothing but a heap of old rotten wood cobbled together, reeking of silence, of things lost and broken and abandoned during the crushing course of time. It came alive when Padfoot climbed on board before and it will fade away again as soon as he disembarks – Remus isn’t even sure if it’s a metaphor for himself, too, as pathetic as it is. What he is sure of, the only fixed point in the time and space continuum of his and Sirius’ relationship, embedded in his bone marrow, is that he wants to clutch as close as he can all Sirius’ cutting questions, his scathing remarks, his volatile moods, his impetuous moments of fondness. If he can’t have happiness, he’ll take this instead.

There’s no time to relearn each other or to relive their youthfulness, to dredge up old wreckages buried deep in the mountains of the past, but they still have one another, and being together despite it all is the ultimate act of defiance in the face of time and hostile fate and their own mistakes. He can’t stop replaying it in his mind: Sirius’ warm breath against his ear, strong arms around his waist, and the way he melted in that closeness, in that unspoken offer, slipped in-between the fog of memories. 

If it means that Remus must follow Sirius below deck and beg him not to squander their precious time arguing and dissecting old guilts and mistakes and trying in vain to unearth when and why they fucked up, then he will go and plead his case.

Remus climbs down the steps, slow with his uneven gait, his bad knee already sore. The old wooden walls are silent spectators of a scene they saw countless times before, Remus chasing Sirius. The dangling petrol lamps lit up with candles, the rattling glass windows, the creaking wooden planks that witnessed their happiness and their love spurring him to go to him, talk to him, not letting Sirius slip through his fingers again. And Remus does.

He almost collides with Sirius in the tiny kitchenette, the red and green cake box in his hands, two steaming mugs placed on the counter, the kettle still diffusing warmth on the stove. “I was about to call you,” Sirius says, the barest hint of a guilty smile curling his lips, the bitterness and heat from before already tempered.

“Oh, er – thanks.”

They sip their tea beside the kitchen counter and Sirius’ deftly opens the paper box while Remus fishes out a knife from the first drawer beside the sink. Remus quietly eats a small slice of the classic Victoria sponge he bought, the cake chewy and vanilla sugary, the strawberry jam melting sweetly on his tongue, letting Sirius all but devour the rest with the same ravenous appetite he showed in the last day, scarfing down huge mouthfuls and almost inhaling the frosting icing, licking his fingers clean not to miss the littlest crumb. It draws a steady trickle of compassion from the well of Remus’ heart, to picture him eating scraps and rats as Padfoot, hidden in a cave.

“’s good,” Sirius murmurs, and only after he made sure to finish all the icing sugar, he adds, casually like an afterthought. “Sorry I was being an arse again–”

“You weren’t,” Remus lies, quickly, and then, sucking in a breath, “Maybe we should have really run away, that time.” It’s useless to say it out loud, but he does anyway, and it’s worth Sirius’ lopsided smile. It’s been fifteen years since Remus kissed that smile, since silent words embedded on his lips and then whispered with fingers in his hair, caressing him, clutching him, scratching him, and he wants – he might.  
But then Sirius speaks again, voice clear and steady. 

“You know, in Azkaban I thought of you – not every day, sometimes I could barely grope for my name, and mostly I kept obsessing over Peter and Harry and finding–” his voice tapers off like the light’s been sucked out of the world, and Remus _ knows _ that grief, he built half his life around the black hole left from his friends, but he has also learned to live with it in ways Sirius hasn’t.

“I know,” he croaks, and blindly reaches out to grasp Sirius’ elbow, to tell him that they’re still alive despite it all, still here on their little boat, but Sirius interrupts him, throwing him off again with his impromptu confessions.

“I thought of you, all alone, fucking hating me. Must be why the Dementors didn’t fog up all my memories of you – they were unhappy thoughts, but I did, I did think of you, Moony.”

Warm fingers are wandering under the sleeves of his jumper, memories overflowing as if Sirius has slashed open again a wound never fully healed.

“I did, too,” Remus confesses, “And not only the unhappy parts.” After years and years spent in vain repressing the very existence of Sirius he can finally admit it, that no one else ever compared to their short-lived relationship, that not even sinking into the dark sickness of hate could erase all the love he had for him, once.

Remus listens to Sirius’ breathing, steady and deep, as one with his.

“Moony-”

Remus tilts his head up and kisses him, stroking with feather-light fingers his face, the faint lines at the corners of his eyes, the thick beard burning a bit his own skin, his hollow cheeks, his beautiful mouth, and then they’re touching, Sirius’ tongue licking his lips, his beard raspy but his tongue so, so sweet, his strong hands cupping Remus’ neck and waist and arse. Something wild thrums in his chest, a craving newly stirred again after too long, and when Remus puts his hand on Sirius to find him hard already he gasps, it’s too much and not enough at the same time.

The narrow bed just three steps at their left, Remus throws his arms around Sirius' neck and they fall on the bed, close, so close.

He chases the flavor of their old hungry kisses and when he can’t find it Remus only kisses him harder, deep, wet kisses, moaning against his lips, rucking up his jumper to bare his smooth skin, unbuckling both their trousers with deft fingers. Blunt nails scratch his chest and then Sirius suddenly grabs him by the hips, pushing him on the side. Remus turns over, biting his tongue – it’s been so long, but Sirius doesn’t know – and the cold, slippery glide of a hurried charm barely eases the burn of Sirius pushing inside. He fucks Remus with shallow, frantic thrusts and comes with a grunt, collapsing next to him.

Remus wanks face-down on the pillow at the sound of Sirius uneven breathing, and when he spills on the covers, his release is exhausting and cathartic and unnerving, because a strange sort of dizziness is possessing his shaking limbs, the quiet sadness that always besiege his heart whenever he’s with Sirius coming to haunt him just after the liberation of orgasm. He rolls on his back again, covers itchy under his bare arse, and disillusion nestles deep in the pit of his belly: after fifteen years, they shouldn’t settle for a sad, clumsy quickie.

Remus tries to even his shaky breathing but finds out he can’t, and there’s a drumming against his throat – maybe his own heart wanting to escape, threatening to burst out of his lips in a sob he pushes back in. Suddenly he finds himself wrapped up in strong arms, and Sirius is kissing his cheeks and nose and mouth and whispering the sweetest words on his skin, holding him like he’s precious, like he’s loved. _ Oh, darling, what’s wrong, I’m so sorry it wasn’t as good as before, I tried, it’s been so long, I’m sorry. _

“You didn’t like it very much, did you?” Sirius smiles sadly.

_ No, I didn’t, _ a part of Remus wants to hiss, but another longs to hide his cheek on Sirius’ shoulder and whisper to the warm smooth skin that Sirius is still the best thing he ever had, even at their worst. Remus blathers nonsense about everything being alright, pressing his body against Sirius’, and little by little his disquiet slowly soothes as his lips on Sirius’ neck trace imaginary patterns, muscles relaxing in their sticky embrace, in the softness of the bed, his breathing finally settled, his face now burning with hot kisses and not with shame.

He listens to the silence for a while, focussing on the cracking sounds of the old decadent boathouse rotating in a pivot turn, and to the sea whispering all around them. They’re old and wasted themselves, badly stitched together. 

Remus reaches out to stroke Sirius’ hair, the hollow curve of his cheek, and thinks he might love him, warm and precious like a Christmas gift under his fingers, or maybe it’s a Sirius that doesn’t exist anymore that he loves, but still – love warms his heart again and their time together is almost over. Remus doesn’t want to waste it pondering on impossible matters.

“You could stay,” he surprises himself saying, “until tomorrow morning.”

“You want me to?” Sirius replies, surprise and hope clear in the tilt of his voice.

“Yes,” he smiles. 

Sirius lies down with half his body over Remus’, and he’s heavy, the wool of his jumper stinging a bit on Remus’ bare waist, his arms and legs pointy and sharp, their embrace still graceless, but somehow in that moment, in that bed, in that boat, it seems like a charm has been cast around them, a bubble of contentment where they can have solace.

“I can visit again sometime soon, now that I have a wand? I can come ‘round meal hours so you can stuff me full again, or perhaps scare you in the middle of the night,” Sirius talks playfully, his hand under Remus’ jumper stroking the old scars and finding the new ones, and Remus’ heart splits in two like a ripe apricot not just because it’s sweet, but also because maybe the future can still hold promises for them.

He smiles. “Whenever you want.”  
The boat sways and vibrates in its journey back home towards the cottage, the bed groans under their combined weight, waves rising and falling, resilient, and between the fair wind and magic, they sail together. 


End file.
